


Get Out Of My Plaster

by voleuse



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-30
Updated: 2004-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He's the stupid jerk I'm obsessed with</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Out Of My Plaster

**Author's Note:**

> No spoilers. Title, summary, and headings taken from Maggie Estep's sublime _The Stupid Jerk I'm Obsessed With_.

_i. stands so close to me_

Hermione hates Draco Malfoy. Like a plague, like a pestilence. Like a pustule, or something equally disgusting, because he disgusts her. She hates him like she hates the rats that scurry in the less-frequented hallways and in the corners of the dungeons she's not supposed to have explored. She hates him.

She tells herself.

Every time she's almost convinced herself, however, he catches her in the hallway, runs a hand over her arse, and whispers filthy things against her neck. She nips at his throat with her teeth and snarls at him, but she presses her hips to his at the same time, and grins when he thrusts against her furtively. They part only when they hear footsteps approaching.

Then the litany begins anew.

_ii. the way he would smell_

They run each other down, in hallways, in the library, in empty classrooms, at the edges of the forest. She'd like to think herself his prey, that she's helpless against his cunning, but it's only half the truth.

She chases him, often as not, pressing him into corners and cupboards and, once, a portcullis. He leaves bruises on her thighs and hips, and she leaves bitemarks under his collar, and long, red scratches on his back.

Once in a while, she thinks it shouldn't be like this. That she should be with someone she whispers to with love, sweet nicknames, instead of insults and profanities.

Then she catches his scent, or he catches hers, and the chase is on again.

_iii. his primary function in life_

He stops by the Gryffindor table over breakfasts, insults her friends to her face, insults her to their faces, and dodges off moments before they get up to beat him into the ground. Harry and Ron are Gryffindors, true, but they don't dream of tasting Malfoy's blood.

That idle wish is hers, and hers alone.

Draco is often accompanied by his fellow Slytherins, usually Crabbe and Goyle, and sometimes Pansy and Blaise. At worst, he calls her "mudblood," or "Potter's bitch," if he's feeling confident.

She wishes he didn't look so attractive while he did it.

It doesn't stop her from hexing him, if he goes too far. She doesn't want him to think he can get away with insulting her, after all.

_iv. lend fuel to my fire_

In the late hours, before the library closes, Madame Pinch grows a tiny bit careless. Intent on chasing first- and second-years out of the library, she's less likely to keep her eagle's eye on advanced students perusing the restricted section. Especially exemplary scholars like Hermione. And, it turns out, Draco.

When bereft of victims, she observes, he's actually diligent in his studies, as devoted to pursuing knowledge as he is to persecuting helpless Hufflepuffs and hectoring the Gryffindors.

She catches him unawares, as he studies the spine of a text on outlaw animagi. Slips her arms around him and rubs her hand against his groin until he's hard. Pulls at his shoulders until he's kneeling on the floor, parts their robes and sinks down onto him, gnawing on his shoulder to muffle her groan.

They thrust together artlessly, mindful of their recklessness, the good Madame's voice echoing from across the room. By the time she returns to peer at them suspiciously, they are upright and well-groomed, and smiling like wolves at each other.

She doesn't bother to rebuke them, because what could they have done in the space of a few minutes?

_v. his well-shaped ass_

She's doing an independent research for Muggle Studies, a proposal she made to the professor after explaining that she actually _lives_ with Muggles, and thus can gather information that he's unable to acquire himself. Thanks to that, she has a free period, to study in the library or in her quarters, as she will.

She's between kitchens and tower when he appears in front of her, the whisper of his feet and the silk of his laugh the only sounds for what seems like miles.

He shoves her against the wall, and her head thuds painfully against the stone, but she only arches against him as he grasps her hips, props her against the wall as they fumble with their clothing. He plunges into her hastily, and she wraps an ankle around his hips, standing tiptoe on her other leg, desperate for a little more leverage.

She's about to cry out her pleasure, and he probably notices, because he mutters something about this being the way Malfoys fuck their servants, and she clenches her teeth and hisses at him instead, digging her nails into his arse and hoping that she'll draw blood.

_vi. overdose on nutmeg and aspirin_

It really has to stop, she tells herself. The nights after she hasn't shagged Draco, she soaks in a hot bath, hissing as the perfumed water stings at her abused flesh.

It has to stop, because she hates him, and he hates her just as much.

_It_, she calls their encounters in her mind, because if she thinks further in that direction, she just wants him more.

She always wants more.

_vii. confounded by the fact_

On the weekends, when the Quidditch team is practicing, she slips out of the castle and into the edges of the forest, which isn't as forbidden to her as it used to be.

She keeps to the lighted pathways, veers away when she hears skittering in the bushes, and finds a quiet stream and a clear meadow. And she waits, or finds him waiting.

They lay a blanket on the grass and shed their clothes until they're naked in the sunlight. He kisses every inch of her skin, and she does the same to his. They each linger over marks they've left, grinning at them like trophies.

They writhe together for hours on end, until they've exhausted themselves, and lie together, limbs entwined, until the sunlight wanes gold.

Never, never does she think of those times as making love, because then she might go mad.

_viii. get the hell out of there_

On occasion, the students are still allowed to visit Hogsmeade, despite the war being waged. Often, she's accompanied by Ron and Harry, and they whirl through the town as if they were children again, sampling candy and giggling at pranksters' tools.

Sometimes, though, she goes alone, and strolls the avenues until Draco, inevitably, grasps her arm and pulls her into an alley or an empty yard (and once, unforgettably, she dragged him into the Shrieking Shack and fucked him till the name was apt again).

One afternoon, however, he pulls her into a tavern and to a table, and though she doesn't recognize any of the patrons in the darkly-lit pub, there _are_ people there.

She doesn't understand.

_ix. you're just a figment of my imagination_

He offers to buy her a butterbeer, and she blinks.

"What did you say?"

He rolls her eyes and leans back in his chair, signals to the witch behind the counter, and two mugs appear in front of them, almost by magic, but truthfully, in haste. The butterbeer in her cup sloshes onto the table, but she's still too surprised to be fastidious. When he picks up his cup to drink, she does as well.

And then, something even stranger happens.

He begins to talk to her, and what's further, she responds.

_x. and frankly, I couldn't be happier_

She indulges herself that evening, and fills her bath with bubbles. She slips into the bath and sighs. It's been a confusing day.

She actually had a conversation with Draco Malfoy, in public, and she enjoyed it.

When their time was done, he escorted her back to Hogwarts, casting insults at any who looked askance at them, Slytherin and Gryffindor alike. She had rolled her eyes at that, apologized to her peers if she felt it necessary, but kept her chin up and eyes forward.

She's not sure what happened that afternoon, but she admits to herself, reluctantly, that it was pleasant.

Then, there's a knock at the door, and Draco appears, his expression almost shy. When she smiles at him, however, he leers, a familiar sight, and locks the door behind him, then guards it again with a complex charm.

She sits up as he begins to strip his clothes off, and takes his hands as he steps gingerly into the bath. "I hate you, you know," she tells him.

As he settles beside her, he nods. "I know. I hate you, too."

"Just so that's clear," she responds, and then they kiss.

And nothing is clear at all.


End file.
